Scales
by Coins Compressed
Summary: In which Alfred has bested the dragon, and Arthur has done not very much at all, but it's still enough to be scandalous. / Pointlessly fluff-ridden oneshot, Medieval!AU.


**author's note: **if plottish fics drain too much time, then little oneshots should tide me over writing – that, and i can't leave our boys for too long, now, can i? uwu

**warnings: **anachronisms ahoy! this is not the historical piece it claims to be – its medieval setting is more a fictionalised one, but it does poke fun at itself and it's more a scrape into the genre than anything factual.

* * *

**scales**

* * *

Alfred should really be back by now.

Of course, he's been away for longer before and this isn't anything new, but usually when he gives a deadline of some sort, he sticks to it. He said, four days ago, that he'd be back within three. Mathematics was never Alfred's strongest point, so Arthur's holding out for it to be revealed that Alfred merely messed up the dates – either that, or overestimated his abilities, which is equally likely.

Prince Arthur Kirkland, heir to the throne and purveyor of fabulous hair, isn't worried. Oh, no; why would he be worried? When Alfred says, grin in place and eyes gleaming with the promise of adventure, that he's going to kill a dragon and bring Arthur back its scales, that's what Alfred is going to do. He did not decide to die on this particular hunt, so he's not going to – beneath it all, Arthur _does _have faith in his Knight, and he really does need those scales for spell-casting.

Hmph. Scales. On a scale of one to ten, one being somewhat mellowed and ten being brain-implosion irritated, Arthur is already a firm six and veering closer to a seven every passing moment in which Alfred isn't present.

He's been watching the courtyard from the battlement-castle's tower for quite some time now, so much so that he's lost track of how long's passed, and it's a warm enough day outside that he's beginning to grow somewhat overheated. He tucks back the dangling sleeves of his robe, leans his slender arms out across the stone windowsill, and crouches in front of said window to simply nestle his head into his elbows. With his forehead pressed to cool stone, he feels better.

God knows how much longer passes then, but the next thing he knows, there are scuffling sounds from down below and he's being struck by something _wet_.

"What on-," he says, and he never finishes that sentence because when he leaps to his feet for the sake of examination, he finds he was hit by a freshly-gnawed apple core. He lifts it to the light; hardly the most impressive of assaults, he thinks, gazing down at the courtyard to find – surprise, surprise – Alfred just so happens to be conveniently present, quietly observing the tower-bound Prince from the comfort of his horse.

The horse is named Hero. The man riding her is a moron.

"That was rather uncalled for," Arthur huffs, letting the apple drop to the cobbles below. "If you wanted to gain my attention, there are easier ways of going about it. For instance: merely making yourself known with a simple shout."

"I didn't do nothing," is Alfred's scholarly response. Wisdom beyond his years. "Honest I didn't – and anyway, why would I wanna throw somethin' at my favourite little Prince?"

Arthur grimaces. "Gosh, I have no idea." He pauses. "You're a day late, you know."

"I'm no good at timekeeping."

"Yes, but a _day_?"

"Aw. That's sweet. Did you really miss me that much?"

Arthur feels his eye twitch, suddenly wishing he still had that core so he could chuck it back at the beaming tosser. "I didn't miss you in the least-! I merely expected you to be back earlier with the ingredient you promised me. And that's beside the point, because it shouldn't take any _capable _Knight four days to slay a dragon."

"Wow, ouch." The heavy material of Alfred's uniform makes a horrible crinkling sound when the Knight moves his arms, hands clasping over his heart in mock-hurt. "You wound me so, Artie! I went through so much to save that village fulla people, but I now see I was wrong not to make you happy first! Maybe I shoulda just stayed in that cave to live out the rest of my days in solitude."

In relation to the scale of Arthur's mood, seven-tenths annoyed, as response to Alfred's statement he swiftly becomes eight.

"Mm. At least then I wouldn't have to foot the employment bill whilst you drink away my good father's funding in a seedy tavern partway between debauched and French – did you even retrieve what I asked for?"

"I'm not stupid," Alfred says, then quickly realises Arthur would very much protest to that. So he cuts the Prince off by producing a small ribbon-wrapped purse, the contents no doubt wyvern in nature. "I wouldn't go through all that just to save a couple sheep from getting roasted, darlin'."

"Excellent work, lad, truly top-notch." He grins, a rare Arthurian gesture, and presses his palms flat to the windowsill to lean out just a bit. "You've truly earned your stripes, but of course, I'm officially _very_ glad you managed to be of assistance to my citizens. Not that I ever doubted their ability to sort out the problem themselves, but..." He frowns, cutting himself off mid-flow. "If I may be so bold as to ask, why on Earth did you need that extra day?"

It wouldn't be such an issue, if it wasn't so very un-Alfred.

"I'm real sorry about that," the Knight says. He rubs the back of his head, tilting it back to stare up at Arthur's battlement perch. "See, they wanted to get a picture for the local newspaper –"

"Oh?"

"-so I had to wait a couple extra hours to get a commissioned portrait done, and then it was too late to ride back."

"Ah."

They say nothing more for a moment, because that would simply spoil it. Arthur smiles down at Alfred, soft and genuine, an expression Alfred is only too happy to return – God, Arthur sometimes hates it, being _this_ in love and _this_ attached, enough so that he can now admit to himself all right, maybe he _was _worrying about Alfred. Just a little bit.

"...So," Arthur ventures, only once he's begun to feel too awkward with such familiarity and appearances must be kept up. "You must tell me the grand tale of your expedition, brave soldier."

Alfred pauses. And then, "Come down or you'll never know."

As strong as Alfred might be to best a dragon, there's a feat of physical exertion _Arthur_ can do; he hurries away from his window in the usual manner - careful so as not to trip over his irksome robes - and counts the tower steps as he descends them. Ten. Ten steps down towards the door followed by five more across the courtyard, finding himself in Alfred's arms almost instantly after making his way outside.

He'd say something, but he finds himself unable to when lips press against his forehead, then nose, then both cheeks (at separate moments). Amused, he stands there and accepts all given affection, arms snaking their way around Alfred's middle, silent until he's quite sure the Knight is done.

"Someone's happy to see me."

Alfred snickers, ye olde spectacles rendered quite askew. "I'm _always_ happy to see my Artie."

"I wish you wouldn't call me that, but if you must... Is this what you really wanted me down for? Not that I'm complaining."

Alfred considers the statement, directing his gaze upwards for just a moment, before deciding with a nod to himself that his planned action is fitting. He leans in, attempting to press his lips to Arthur's as his next kiss's target, only to gawk when Arthur turns his head away.

"Ah-ah! You haven't told me the story yet, Jones."

"Aw, c'mon! It's been ages, Artie. It's just a kiss."

Regardless, Arthur keeps arched out of reach, glancing sideways, and though Alfred pouts he doesn't press the issue. He's such a _good_ boy – and he knows Arthur's only playing.

The Kingdom doesn't know about them yet. How scandalous; a Prince in love with his Knight, both men to make it worse. Arthur smiles as he thinks of it, the inevitable outrage the pair will one day receive – because it's not going to be a secret forever. It's entertaining now, furtive glances, stolen kisses, but one day Arthur's father will pass and the commoners will want their newly-crowned Prince to wed his Queen.

Or King.

Or just, well, Alfred.

"I did miss you, you know," Arthur murmurs, half-pressing his face to the slope of Alfred's neck. The arms around him tighten their hold, instinctive, and he bites his tongue so as not to scold, because really, it's quite enjoyable. "It's no fun around here without you. I struggle to mock official duties as skilfully as you would and everything ends up taken too seriously."

Alfred's breath tickles the top of his ear. "Knew it. Where would you be without me?"

"Indeed." The hands Arthur has on Alfred's waist dare to travel south, and he gives the right honourable rear a good squeeze. "Where would I be without my gorgeous Knight and the comeliest arse in all the land?"

Alfred groans, hiding a flush against Arthur's hair. "Dude. Ruined the moment."

"My speciality."

"I love you, even if you're a goddamn sexual deviant."

"Mm, I know – and I daresay I feel the same way about you, but I'll take that purse as a token of your affection."

It feels strange, to have someone laugh against his scalp. Arthur closes his eyes and tries not to giggle like an infantile princess at the tingling sensation, returning to tightly holding his Knight in this, their makeshift embrace.

At last, Alfred just speaks. "You never give up, do you? Whaddya need these scales for so badly, anyway? I gotta say, collecting them all from a pretty blood-stained cave floor wasn't the nicest of jobs, but I did it for _you._"

"If you're expecting a victory shag, it's not happening," Arthur says – though it probably will. "I need them for potions, that much should be obvious... A potion for you, in fact."

Alfred snorts. "Your stuff never works."

"Rude! I'll have you know that if I get it right, I'll have made the most efficient protection elixir possible. Now available in three nifty shades of brown."

"Appetising," Alfred says, while pulling back just enough to meet Arthur's gaze. The boy is still blushing, cheeks rosy and eyes warm, enough to make Arthur wonder if he looks anything similar. "I guess I'm glad you're making something to keep me safe in conflict, but... you sent me out into conflict to get what you needed for it anyway."

"Oh, _please_." He taps his hands once against the small of Alfred's back in admonishment. "Dragons are absolutely nothing for a gifted Knight like you, and the missions my father might one day involve you in will no doubt be far more taxing than this." He pauses. "It wasn't even a very big dragon."

"It was nearly as big as Hero-!"

"Very scary. Isn't Hero an offshoot from Shetland ponies anyway?"

Alfred huffs, reluctant to say another word. Arthur offers a teasing pout before simply nuzzling the American's shoulder, something that makes Alfred brighten enough, at least, to ask, "What did you wanna know?"

"Oh, you know. The usual."

"And what's the usual, exactly?"

"How did you _quell_ the dragon, that would be a start," Arthur says, casting his eyes to the Heavens in exasperation. "I assume the tale you've been planning to tell me is grossly exaggerated and I'd rather hear the truth, so if you please..."

"...It was pretty easy. Took a while to find it, but when I did, it was sleeping, so..."

Arthur quirks a brow. "So what you mean to say is, you didn't really do much in the way of a heroic deed to begin with?"

"I didn't even hafta slay it."

"What?"

"It just... let me capture it. Really lazy from all them sheep. The local witch made it her pet, actually, which is a kinda funny story-"

"I don't want to know," Arthur says, then he groans his way into rhythmically thunking his forehead against Alfred's shoulder. "You can tell me later, I suppose, but right now, I'd rather wallow in the wonderful illusion that I'm being courted by an incredibly brave and dashing young warrior."

"Hey!", and bless him, Alfred does sound somewhat hurt. "At least the dashing part's true, right?"

With all this talk of oversized lizards, that irritation scale rises once more in Arthur's head; he finds, quite confusedly, it's made its welcome way back down to three – which is his general level, naturally. Alfred has that calming effect on him in moments like these.

He squirms to make Alfred's arms drop away from him, allowing him to reach up and gently cup Alfred's cheeks, nudging his fingertips into Alfred's honeyed hair while offering again his earlier gentle smile.

"Dashing, yes," he begins, "and thoughtful enough to go through all that just for me... and the people that summoned you, naturally. More coward _them _for not sorting out the issue by themselves, of course, if it wasn't as difficult as you claim – you are brave. Brave or reckless. I'll go with the former, though I do warn you I'm merely doing so because love decided to inconveniently blind my logical thought."

"You can be pretty mean, you know - even when you're being nice." Though, Alfred's grinning, covering Arthur's hands with his own as if for emphasis. "I did my best and that's all that matters, which is why I gotta ask. Do I get that kiss?"

"Persistent bastard."

It's another thing he doesn't mean. If Arthur was to take yet another scale, one being infatuation and ten, _ten_, being the sort of love that makes him a constant tingling mess of devotion, of adoration and nothing less, squirming in his place whenever he thinks of Alfred and not just because of bodily desires (though that is admittedly a rather _smug_ part)—

He would choose eleven, but if he said that aloud he would no doubt receive ridicule from his absolutely lovely, but somewhat uninspired, Knight, declaring that eleven is _more_ than ten, silly Prince! And of course, to utter such a result Arthur would have to speak in the first place, which he hardly wishes to do now, now that Alfred's swooping in for a kiss he'll claim is his reward.

Arthur's more than happy to give him as many kisses as he feels he deserves, and numbers matter not on that account.

* * *

**x-x**


End file.
